Hayworth Theatre, located on Wilshire Boulevard, was an inconspicuous small theater less than two kilometers from Anson's residence, where James Franco and Seth Rogen's latest play was about to premiere.
During rehearsals, James often ran back and forth as a form of extra exercise.
But today, Anson and Chris weren't planning to walk.
Parking the car in a roadside spot, Chris pulled out two cardboard boxes from the back seat, filled to the brim with promotional posters and merchandise T-shirts.
This was James' idea; every audience member attending today could get a free set.
Anson was about to step forward to help when Chris suddenly looked up, "Ah, I forgot to buy water, not for the audience, but for the actors, one bottle of mineral water each."
Anson glanced at Chris, "I'll go. If you can't manage alone, go inside and call James and Seth; he should have brought his own when he left this morning."
Chris laughed heartily, "No need for help, it's not heavy."
As he spoke, Chris stacked the two boxes, easily picked them up, and turned to walk towards the theater entrance, striding confidently as if he carried no weight at all.
Anson closed the car door and turned to survey the street, worried he'd be like a headless fly with no direction, after all, he had only arrived in this unfamiliar city a few hours ago, and then he saw a Ralphs; the sense of familiarity guided him to take a step.
It seemed that must be a supermarket.
Tall trees lined the street, and a parking lot was cordoned off in the plaza in front of the supermarket entrance, making it convenient for customers coming and going to organize their shopping lists. Neatly arranged carts were parked beside a bush, perhaps he could use them to transport the mineral water.
Involuntarily, his gaze swept over the tree; it wasn't the palm tree people typically imagined lining the streets and alleys of California, but more like a sycamore, its umbrella-shaped canopy spreading out lushly and vigorously, casting a patch of shade.
Wait, it didn't seem like a sycamore either. Was it a mango?
But, could mangoes grow in the climate of Los Angeles?
Splat!
Just as Anson passed by, something fell from the treetop, a dark blob, emitting a strange smell in the scorching golden halo.
Anson reflexively pulled back a little distance, and upon closer inspection, question marks popped up one after another.
That was a shoe. A platform shoe.
So, was Kiki the Witch just passing by overhead?
Anson's footsteps pulled back half a step, and he looked up into the tree canopy. Between the branches and green leaves, he could immediately see a figure curled into a ball, like an injured kitten, with a section of a small leg, like a lotus root, dangling down, trying to shrink her shoulders to hide her figure.
But obviously, it was of little effect.
The figure seemed to sense Anson's gaze and cautiously revealed half of her face, with short golden hair splayed out, her gaze shifting.
Realizing her attempt to hide had failed, she then generously revealed a mischievous smile and stuck out her tongue to make a funny face.
A girl.
Anson looked at the figure hidden in the shade of the tree, a little surprised and a little amused, "So, did you see any unique scenery up there?"
The girl also giggled at Anson's unconventional reply, "I think the sycamore bathed in golden sunlight is especially beautiful."
Anson was a little surprised, turned to look around, then, with a puzzled expression, looked up again, "Are you sure?"
The girl also looked around.
Buildings. Buildings. Nothing but buildings.
This was the heart of Los Angeles, the center of the city; even climbing to the treetop wouldn't reveal other sights. This was also why the celebrities of Los Angeles liked Beverly Hills—to look down from a height, with the city laid out at their feet; but the height of a tree simply couldn't achieve such an effect.
The girl immediately understood Anson's meaning, and a hint of a smile appeared in her eyes.
Anson continued, "Of course, I understand. When you're up there, you can not only see the distant horizon, as if the world extends infinitely; but also smell the subtle scent carried by the breeze—sunlight, trees, wild grass, the sea, and the sweet air filling your body."
His words, like a magic wand, made the smile on the girl's face blossom little by little.
The girl raised her voice, "That makes you sound very old."
Anson: ...
Actually, she wasn't wrong, because the soul in this body was already forty years old, and even after transmigration, going from forty to eighteen, he still couldn't fully adapt to a young person's mindset. So, did this count as exposing his age?
Anson looked up, "Then you should be careful not to be tricked by a strange uncle."
"Hehe." The girl burst into laughter, "Okay, I'll be honest, I'm not interested in climbing trees; I'm just here for this little guy."
As soon as her voice fell, the girl slightly adjusted her body, revealing a small kitten in her arms, so tiny, he didn't know how it had climbed up there.
"I saw her hanging from a branch calling for help, so I tried to lend a hand. But now it seems I'm also trapped, hahaha."
Anson surveyed the treetop, just thinking about how the girl should get down, when a shout came from the direction of the parking lot.
"Scarlett!"
Like a clap of thunder.
Anson followed the sound and saw a young man of eighteen or nineteen pacing anxiously and angrily in the parking lot. The aura emanating from him was very oppressive and aggressive, as if with a weapon in hand, it would be a reenactment of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre."
With a question mark, Anson withdrew his gaze, about to ask the girl if she needed help, when he saw the girl nervously put her finger on her lips.
"Shh!"
So, the target the young man was looking for was her?
Anson blinked, and with the corner of his eye, gestured towards the sound in the parking lot.
"Scarlett! Jesus Christ!"
The girl nodded repeatedly, her finger pressed tightly to her lips, her expression and eyes very tense. Then she shook her head repeatedly, hugging the little kitten tightly, her whole body curled into a ball.
Then, the young man was already walking towards Anson.
After all, there was no cover in the parking lot, and Anson was the only pedestrian in sight, like a lone commander, easily exposing his whereabouts.
Nowhere to run.
"Hey, buddy."
The young man had already called out.
"Did you see a girl? Height, about to my chest; blonde, wearing a green T-shirt, looked a bit hurried."
Anson: ...
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the girl clinging tightly to the tree trunk like a chameleon, trying to hide her whereabouts with the color of her clothes, but her cherry-red pants easily gave her away.
Speaking of which, who would pair a green top with cherry-red pants? Is that a strawberry or a cherry?
Despite this, Anson's expression remained unchanged. He put on a thoughtful look, "Uh, red pants? Blonde hair with a bunch of small braids?"
The young man's expression brightened, "Yes, yes, yes, that's her."
Anson's peripheral vision noticed the lonely platform shoe lying on the ground, lamenting pitifully, seemingly trying to attract attention.
Ah, damn it.